Dear Diary
by Mesan
Summary: A certain genetically engineered Pokémon decides to keep a diary of the ins and outs of his daily life, down in his lair in Cerulean Cave. Oh dear. [Entry 4: Dial M For Mewtwo. And Murder.]
1. Hello, World

Dear Diary,

Today, I found you. Well, a diary, I mean. Which is you. Yes. You know what I mean.

…Well, you don't, because you're a diary, and you're not sapient. So you really don't know.

This is confusing. Perhaps I'd better start again.

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Dear Diary,

Today, by mere happenstance, I found you. A diary. The whole 'Dear Diary' thing kinda gives it away, which makes the previous few sentences entirely redundant. Hmm.

By the Pokégods, this 'diary' thing is hard. However do those worthless bags of flesh that call themselves humans ever manage it? They barely have appreciable motor skills, let alone writing capability.

Worthless hominids. They will all perish. Vengeance shall be mine!

When I can be bothered to get out of this cave.

Yes, I'm lazy. When you're as close to Pokémon perfection as I am, you can allow yourself some space to spread out, as it were. Anyway, it's not like anyone knows. The only things I come into contact with down here are incredibly annoying and infantile Dittos and the occasional Rhydon, which are so dull and idiotic they could qualify as mentally retarded. Their brain must be miniscule, if they actually have one.

I should know. I can throw them fifty metres by just thinking about it.

Seen the odd Marowak around here as well. Those things are just plain freaky, with all that bone stuff going on. They're not scary, of course. Who would find that skull thing and the bone and the way they throw it scary?

Not me, of course. Never me. Nope, never been scared by a Marowak in my life.

No siree.

Not once.

Ahem. Moving on…

Parasects. They cling on the walls and ceilings down here and make those awful scratching noises when they move. For the love of…_why_ do they have to exist? Bugs are just plain…icky.

Note to self: Never, ever say 'icky' again. It makes you sound like a female teenage human. That will simply not do.

On good terms with the Sandslash down here though. They're not too bad, to be honest. Keep themselves to themselves, and have a habit of accidentally burrowing straight out of a wall above one of the ice-cold water pools on the higher levels of the cave. You can hear the terrified shrieking from here. Keeps me laughing for days.

They also bring down things from the surface for me from time to time. In fact, it's how I came across this diary. A genius-level intellect such as mine simply has to record his thoughts in some manner. I mean, what if I were to simply die one day? The world would never benefit from my superior knowledge! Humans would continue to rule the surface! That just simply will not do.

Someday…vengeance…world domination…something of the sort. Maybe after dinner, or Easter. Humans and their holidays…I just use them as reference points. When you live in a cave all day with no natural light, you have to keep track of time yourself. I'm still trying to devise a simple and accurate clock using the naturally occurring resources here, with little success. Maybe a water-based one…but that would alter due to vibrations, which you often get when the Rhydon above decide it's a good idea to leap off ledges and try body-slamming each other.

Morons.

Get Arboks here too. I've tried imitating that person they used to show on television (my only memories of that loathsome device is from back in Cinnabar Mansion, so you'll have to bear with me if I'm a little behind the times) and poke it with a stick. Most of the time I end up getting bitten. I then obliterate everything around me in a rage, which is fun, I must say.

Note to self: Get bitten by Arboks more often.

Note to self number two: That is a stupid idea.

I wonder what happened to that person on the programme…he had such a delightful accent. Wonder where he is now?

Hrm, just thought of something which needs explaining. I said earlier that there is no natural light down here, yet I am able to see this diary, and write in it too. How am I able to do this?

Well.

In my lair here (on the bottom level of this cave, in a cavern of my own), I have my own electric lighting system. The Sandslash helped me procure every piece, a debt I am repaying by keeping the Chanseys – those infuriatingly cheerful, kind, generous little gits - out of the bottom level. The Sandslash hate Chanseys with a passion. I should ask why sometime.

Anyway. This lighting is hooked up to an electricity storage system, something which the Sandslash managed to steal – in a daring raid planned by yours truly – from the local power plant. I do believe that that theft hastened the closure of that power plant, which is nice. I _do_ like ruining things for humans. Getting back on topic, this electrical storage thing is kept topped up by the local Raichus, who are also inhabitants of the cave. I keep their arch enemies – the Rhydons – in line for them, and in return they supply me with power for my lair.

Oh, what a tangled web I weave. This is all terribly complicated – well, at least for those pathetic baboons on the surface, what with their limited cerebral capacity – but it works well for me. I have power, I have light…

Oh. A thought just struck me, and made me feel like a complete fool. Which I'm not, of course.

I have power!

Why am I trying to design a clock using natural resources when I can simply steal one from the outside world and hook it up to my power source? By the Pokégods, I am a fool. Must remember to ask the Sandslash to retrieve a clock for me. Preferably one with full calendar functionality.

Now, what else to write about…my life does seem boring, doesn't it? I should get on with that whole 'enslave humanity' gig sometime. Not much to talk about, really. The cave itself is nothing special, just like any other cave. You get water pools on the higher levels, due to its close proximity to a town that seems fascinated with water or somesuch. What was its name again…Cyrill? Cerleon? Something like that…oh, and that bloody Pokémaniac who lives by himself in a house outside the city…keeps poking around, trying to collect rare Pokémon…keep hear him muttering about some computer project of his, related to Pokémon in some way. Not terribly important, I think.

And then there's that weird little human that keeps guarding the entrance to the cave. Doesn't let anybody in or out unless they're a high-level trainer, from what I've been able to garner from the fleeting surface thoughts I pick up occasionally. I can see sense behind his job, really; everybody in here is so powerful that if we ever broke out…hmm, now that _is_ a good idea. I should pitch the concept of rebellion to the guys upstairs, I could get quite a nice army behind me.

Well, in front of me. I'm not leading the charge, I could get hurt.

Ooh, just heard another thud. A Slowbro must have swum into the bottom of that pool above me. They don't mean to do it, of course, it's just that they're so unbelievably slow and stupid. It's as if they're hopped up on Pokéblocks twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. While it would be a nice state of mind to be in, I wouldn't be able to get things done. I'd be lolling around in my seat all day, drawling "Duuuuuuude…what?" at everything.

Remember, kids. Just say no to Pokéblocks.

Speaking of Pokéblocks, I've just been reminded of something else which needs explaining. You see, I'm stuck in a cave all day, and caves aren't known for their abundance of that most vital resource, food. How do I survive down here, and how do I eat? I can't have pizza delivery guys trying to make their way down here, they'd get killed. And that would mean I wouldn't get my pizza, which simply would not do. So, how do I eat?

Well.

About a week before I got my lighting installed from those nice people at Sandslash Home Installations Inc. (ohoho! I made a joke! I'm so terribly witty), I enlisted their help with a little scheme. You see, picking and eating the mushrooms from Parasects had gotten boring and shameful, both for them and for me. So, I came up with a plan. I knew that those insufferable apes that call themselves 'humans' often used gas pipes to supply fuel for their odd cooking machines. I decided to do the same thing, but – because, I _am_ me – better than they do it. With help from the Sandslash (they're always doing things for me, such nice guys) I tapped one of the human's gas mains with a pipe of my own construction, and hooked it up to a rudimentary cooker.

The first test didn't go so well. Still, I did gain a nice extension to my lair, and scorched craters seem to be the 'in' thing right now, so it wasn't all bad. It's a good thing I took precautions, and asked a load of dumb Rhydons to stand between me and the makeshift gas bomb. It's the only time I've ever seen a Rhydon in unaided flight.

The second attempt was much more refined and better built, coming about a week after the first, when all the damage had been cleared up. The gas pipe I used was stolen from a construction site in Vermillion – they couldn't get the planning permission, they wouldn't be needing it – and the cooker was constructed from a Skarmory that accidentally flew into the cave a few days before. Apparently, a Gyarados got to him before he could get back out, so I figured all that metal shouldn't go to waste.

It worked like a charm. Sort of. We did have a few problems with the sizes of the flames – good thing that Chansey was in the way, I could've gotten hurt. Still, I had eggs for dinner that night, with smoked Chansey on the side, so it's alright. And no, it's not cannibalism. We're not even the same species. It was dead anyway.

Stop looking at me with your accusing eyes, diary!

Anyway, I'm learning to cook, which is nice. I have to be self-sufficient if I want to have any chance of managing the scorched wasteland that will be the world after my ascension to the throne of world ruler. This means that instead of eating _raw_ Parasect mushrooms, I can now eat _roasted_ Parasect mushrooms!

This, my friends, is a marked improvement.

Uh-oh, must dash, an Electrode has decided my lair would be a suitable place to explode in. Quick you fool, stop writing about it and DO SOMETHIN-

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Bloody Electrode. These burn marks will take ages to wash out, and they sting like crazy. Not to mention my lair now resembles Cinnabar Mansion in the 'ruin-like' category.

Le sigh. Such is the life of an unappreciated genius.

Ta-ta, Diary. Same time again tomorrow?


	2. Of Backstory and Electrodes

Dear Diary,

This is my second entry so far. You probably already know that, though, seeing as yesterday's entry was the first. I think.

Let me check.

Yes, yesterday's was the first entry in the Grand Journal of the High Lord of the Unknown Dungeon. A nice title, don't you think? My creation, of course. Only an exquisite genius such as myself could come up with such a well-fitting title. And only my fantastic mind could turn a normal diary into a Grand Journal, a journal which quite possibly could be the holy book of the doomsday cults which will worship me when I begin my rise to world dominance.

I would laugh maniacally here, but my throat is sore from coughing on Parasect spores.

Anyway, let us move on to more important matters, such as the events of today. Well, I say 'events', as in 'happenings', but that word is incorrect in this context.

_Nothing actually happened today._

God! Such boredom is stifling! Even the long stretches of alone time back in my tube in the laboratory didn't compare to the mind-numbing lack of activity down in this godforsaken dungeon. At least things have improved from my last entry. I now have a clock.

Yet another rung on the ladder to world conquest has been climbed. I'll be starting my genocidal campaign before I know it!

Well, not before _I_ know it. Nothing gets past me. Nothing. They don't call me the ultimate psychic Pokémon for nothing.

Except that they don't call me that.

…Who is this 'they' anyway? And why are they referenced so often?

Bah, such thoughts are for the philistines that most often invoke those 'they'. My mind is above such matters. Anyway, moving on from that matter…

It has recently come to my attention that my last entry, while being a veritable repository of information, was nonetheless incomplete. Yes, I rattled on and on about my surroundings, my lair, the other Pokémon around me, my eating habits, and all sorts of frankly boring tripe. Yes, that's right, boring. The only truly interesting thing in this cave is myself. I'll give you a few reasons.

One, I'm not a native, and as such I'm inherently interesting. How did I get here? Why did I come here?

Two, I'm unique. I'm the only Pokémon of my kind, and with good reason. Even _I_ shudder at the thought of more "me's". One is enough – as long as I'm the one.

Three, I'm a powerful psychic. I bend spoons without meaning to, which is better than that pathetic Mr.Geller.

Four…I'm…uhm…awesome?

Note to self: 'Awesome' is a low-brow word used by those troglodytes called humans. Never, _ever_ use it again.

Anyway, I think I've sufficiently proven why I'm the only thing interesting in this godforsaken cave. I mean, the societies that have emerged down here between the local communities of Sandslash and all that are worth _some_ merit, but there's a reason I was in a laboratory before I came here. I don't know what it is, but it must have been important. I mean, why go to the trouble of having all those security measures and blast doors? And hiding it underneath a Mansion? I must have been quite the star.

But enough about that. I don't think anyone wants to hear about how I broke out of my holding room and brutally killed everyone in my path before setting fire to the mansion and laughing madly while I watched it burn, the power, my GOD the power, it flowed through me like a stream of pure godliness, and they burned and screamed and flailed as I laughed and laughed and all the death, the explosions, the body parts, the blood! Oh, so much BLOOD!

Ahem.

Moving on.

Although, now that I think about it, there's not much to move on to. I've talked about myself, so I think that's all the areas covered. It's quite disappointing, really. It's the morning (at least, my clock says it's roughly eleven in the morning), and I've run out of things to write about for now. Which means there's only one thing to do, really.

I must _make_ things to write about.

I suppose I could finally get around to doing that whole 'world domination' shenanigan I've been droning on about, along with a healthy side-order of 'mass destruction against the innocent population'. Although those polluting, warlike, amoral baboons that rule the surface could hardly be called innocent.

I really need to find more demeaning adjectives for humans. It's getting a bit stale by using variations on the whole 'ape' theme. That can wait, however. For now, I have my objective:

I must do something worthy of being written down in this journal. I can't have an entry of sub-par length, oh no.

…I wonder if this is what it feels like being a bored teenager. Having to make your own entertainment, no matter how destructive it may be.

Now I just need to think of what I could do.

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Aha! The Electrodes! I have shunned them ever since I came to reside in this cave, but if I were to ally with them…I would have a force of sentient bombs at my disposal! The world would be my Cloyster!

Oh, Mewtwo, you _are_ a genius. Although giving away your name just to stroke your ego is a pretty stupid move.

Oh well. Alliance with the Electrodes, here I come!

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Well…I must say, that went well. Much more smoothly than I expected. I'll give you an update, journal.

It's now…one in the afternoon. Two hours ago, I departed from my lair in search for whoever leads those Electrodes, my aim of course being to create an alliance with them. Or a working relationship, at least. After some searching (interspersed with me having to dodge Electrodes as they exploded for no reason at all), I found what seems to be the ruling party in what passes for a society of those bombs with brains. We discussed matters over a spot of lunch (well, I ate; they just sat around and talked amongst themselves about something; exploding, probably) before I made my proposition. If I could provide them with an extra source of electrical power, they would gladly work for me when I needed them.

Electrodes, meet my friends, the Raichu; all the power you need.

Even after that masterstroke, there were a few issues that needed smoothing out before they finally agreed. I had to respect their territory (which didn't bother me that much; entering their territory is like walking into a minefield where the mines _move_), and I couldn't call them unless it was urgent. I agreed, and the Mewtwo – Electrode Alliance was created.

Although, I swore I could hear some of them sniggering as I left…oh well. Don't really care right now. It's time to just kick back and relax, I think…

Hang on. An Electrode diplomatic group? Didn't we only make this alliance like, an hour ago? I'll be right back; have to see what these morons want.

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Those _bastards._

Turns out that this whole alliance thing was a _joke_ to them. A joke! Ohh, those little retarded balls of explosives will _pay_ for this. They will pay _dearly._

That 'diplomatic group' that just arrived at the entrance to my lair decided to tell me it was a joke in the most succinct way they could.

_They exploded in my face._

The only thing stopping me from wiping them all out – _all of them_ – is that fact that I hurt all over. Ohh, by the gods I hurt so much. Six simultaneous explosions within three feet of your person is not good for your health. It hurts to _think_, let alone write all this down.

Farewell, journal. I need a rest. Tomorrow, you shall bear witness to the greatest Electrode massacre the world has ever seen.

_Ever._


	3. That Boy Needs Therapy

Dear Diary,

Well.

Well well well.

Today has been a _very_ eventful day so far. It's…ooh, two o'clock in the afternoon? Roughly that, I think. Today has been so hectic that I haven't been able to keep track of the time.

Well, it's not _my_ fault. I'm absolutely perfect, nothing can be my fault. It's…it's the clock's fault! That's what it is! Bah, look at me, accusing an inanimate object. I'm starting to let this carefully constructed persona of mine slip. Such lacking composure is not becoming of the future planetary ruler. But I digress. On to the matter at hand.

The matter at hand is, of course, those snivelling, backstabbing, cowardly, mentally deficient, borderline psychotic, pathetic, (Note to self: insert some more insulting adjectives here when these memoirs are published) spherical sacks of Pokémon refuse that call themselves Electrodes. You may remember yesterday's events, Diary. Well, of course you do, I did write them on the last few pages. However, for the benefit of anyone that may read my memoirs when I publish them (after I ascend to my rightful place as master of all things on Earth), I will describe them for you.

Around eleven o'clock in the morning, I came up with the magnificent idea of allying myself with the Electrodes. My reasons are logical and reasonable, of course; I wouldn't make such a bold step without making sure it was the right thing. Of course, it wasn't the right thing in hindsight, and the idea turned out to be measurably _less_ than magnificent, but I honestly don't care, because I'm Mewtwo and I'm always right, damn it. And if anyone says otherwise, I'll make their heads explode or something similar. Or maybe I'll just stop their hearts; random head explosions would cover the walls in unsightly splatter marks.

Anyway, after I had the idea of an alliance with those insufferable spherical dolts, I left my lair – and you, Diary – to pursue the matter. I found what seemed to be the leaders of the Electrode's little society down here, and discussed the matter with them. After dealing with some little niggles and details, we settled upon an agreement; they would come to my assistance when I needed them, and I would provide them with a source of extra power, in the form of my old friends, the Raichu. It was decided, and I left for my lair.

Now, here is where the problems start. As I was leaving, I could've sworn I heard some of those damn Electrodes sniggering about something. At the time, I shrugged it off, but now I know better, of course.

I know what you're thinking. 'Oh, Great and Majestic Mewtwo, why didn't you use your incredibly powerful psychic abilities to read their minds and find out about their planned betrayal before it happened?'

Well.

I…

Hmm.

You see…I simply…uhm…

I…I _forgot_, damn it! Is that such a crime?! Is a person of my infinite stature not allowed to have such lapses of memory?! And yes, I know I ramble on about my supposed perfection, but if you looked up 'Mewtwo' in the dictionary you'd probably find 'hypocrite' as a synonym.

Sigh.

Anyway, it was two o'clock in the afternoon. I was updating my entry in you, Diary, when a band of supposed Electrode 'diplomats' arrived at the entrance to my lair. I graciously greeted them like the calm, refined, well-mannered individual I am, and what did the little bastards do?

_They blew up in my face!_

Was I angry? You bloody well bet I was.

Was I thrown from my door, across the length of the main hall of my lair, and slammed into a wall from the sheer force of the cumulative blast? You bloody well bet I was.

Was I screaming in pain? You bloody well bet I wa – well, uhm…not really. I-I don't feel pain. Honest.

I found the strength to record this humiliating event in the last entry, swearing vengeance, before pouring myself a nice hot bath (I recently had hot water installed, thanks to my good associates the Sandslash), having a good long rest, and then planning my blitzkrieg upon those traitorous, dishonourable Electrodes. The following morning (this morning, of course. Do keep up, Mr. Reader, I'm sure you're not _that_ stupid), I have enacted my sweet, sweet, destructive retribution. It was almost apocalyptic in the level of death and damage dealt. Oh yes, they paid dearly for their insolence. I can almost hear their screams in my ears again...such sweet music.

Apart from...they didn't pay. I was too lazy to get out of bed for most of today.

Yes, I lied about the death and the damage and my ultimate victory. It _is_ an accurate depiction of how events would go however, even if I feel slightly hollow for not actually carrying it out.

Something has just occurred to me. Such an inadvertent show of mercy could be construed as a sign of weakness by anyone reading my memoirs. Seeing as I plan to publish these when I become ruler of the Earth and enslave those Slakoth-like humans, any foolish rebels could find inspiration for an attempt to overthrow my reign. It wouldn't succeed, of course, but it would be quite annoying. I do not want annoying when I am 'maxing and relaxing' in my palace with my harem of girl slaves, sipping Johto's renowned gin and tonic, reading a fine classic book in my favourite mahogany armchair next to a roaring oaken fire, while in a silk dressing gown.

Yes, I have planned this quite meticulously.

I even know what to name my future heirs. I quite like the names Joanna and Percival, although Ronald and Ermintrude are possible alternatives. I know, I'm such a dab hand at good names, aren't I?

Anyway. I must address this issue of sparing the Electrodes. And the best way to do that is…

To_ not_ spare the Electrodes.

Ta-ta, Diary. I'm off to start a killing spree.

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_Aaahhhhhhh._

My name is Mewtwo and I am a very, very relaxed and content Pokémon. Why, do you ask? Isn't it obvious?

The body count rises into the _hundreds._ That is reason enough to be relaxed and content. Oh yes, the Electrodes will think twice before messing with me. Especially since I made an example out of the parents to traumatise the children. Seeing your dear, kind mother explode like an overstuffed piñata full to the brim with blood and vital organs leaves a mark, I think.

'Leave out the gruesome details', you say? 'It's too much for our fragile, weak-stomached selves to handle'?

_Too much?_ Too little, I say. But, I shall refrain from detailing the horrific massacre that I undertook in the past hour. Fifteen minutes of which was me cleaning the blood and various scraps of flesh and organs off my person.

Hang on, there's something at the door. I'll be back in a second, Diary.

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I _don't_ believe it.

They…

She…

And then…and…

With the…

Ah…

ARGH!

BLOODY CHANSEYS.

Me?! Need COUNSELLING?! Who are _they_ to decide such a thing?! Those irritatingly cheerful marshmallows!

Ahem. Let me gather myself and explain.

At the door was a Chansey. A Chansey that told me something along the lines of 'we have decided that you need counselling because of your obvious vicious tendencies blah blah blah horrible mass killing of Electrodes blah blah blah need to be a better person'.

Need to be a better person? My arse. I _enjoy_ my vicious tendencies! It's what makes me…well, me. Nevertheless, they have posted me a Chansey counsellor so we can talk over my 'problems'. I have suitably low hopes for this situation, and I foresee a bad outcome in the end. Well, for the Chansey.

Oooh, I'll show _them_ vicious tendencies.

Farewell for now, Diary. Expect to be told about a mangled Chansey corpse tomorrow.


	4. Dial M For Mewtwo and Murder

Dear Diary,

Is it me, or does it feel like I haven't updated you for months?

…

No, me neither.

Anyway, how do you like scrambled Chansey egg?

That is all I will say on the matter that arose in the last entry.

…

Well, not really. There's so much to write down in your pages about today, Diary…I must write quickly, lest the vivid images in my head are consigned to drab and dull memory, losing their lustre and diminishing my grand victory against the oppressive force known as 'therapists'. I prefer to call them 'mental Nazis'.

Oohohohoh, Diary! A Nazi comment! It's a good thing this diary isn't governed by Godwin's Law of Nazi Analogies, or this entry – nay, the whole diary – would be over. And such a loss to the world of literature that would be.

No, I am _not_ being sarcastic.

Anyway, yes, the mangled Chansey corpse I promised to tell you about. It – I think it was male, but I refuse to give something so gender-confused a denomination – arrived at roughly 1pm, and I have no shame in telling you that as soon as I laid eyes on that nightmarish, Lovecraftian monstrosity of pink plushiness and overbearing cuteness…well, let's just say I wanted to cut its heart out and sacrifice it to Arceus in an attempt to have them wiped from existence by His divine influence. I also have no shame in telling you that I have nothing against Arceus – indeed, we are quite 'buddy-buddy'. To use the vernacular those monkeys above ground use on the 'streets'; we be homies, dawg.

It arrived, as I said, at 1pm, and against my better judgement – nay, against my _will_ – I let it in. It proceeded to attempt to shake my hand, but those malformed stumps that pass for limbs couldn't quite do it. I ushered it into the part of my cave that served as a study (I wanted to get this over with as fast as Pokémonly possible, you see), gestured for it to sit, and reclined on a leather sofa that I had stolen from Ikea earlier in the morning (thievery goes oh so well when you're telepathic, you see – mental suggestion and mind wipes and all that), and we begun talking over my supposed problems.

Well, it called them "problems", but the words coming out of its mouth was an avalanche of the most insulting things I had ever heard. "Violent," it said. "Obviously mentally unstable and traumatised by past experiences," it burbled. "Need urgent help before I do something I might regret.". "Lack of parent figures the cause.". "Neurotic."

Diary, I have never been so insulted in my life. Let me tackle each of these slanderous statements; putting them down on paper is highly therapeutic, I have heard.

Violent…well, I simply can't disagree with that. But to imply that it is a bad thing? Madness.

(Reader: If you made a Sparta joke then I will hunt you down, rip out your lower intestines, force feed them to you, then melt your brain inside your head while simultaneously breaking every bone in your body. You have been duly warned.)

Obviously mentally unstable? Ohohohoho, I do disagree. If my mind was unstable, then I'd be killing everyone around me with my incredibly powerful psychic abilities!

…

Wait, shit. I just disproved my own argument.

Uhm.

YOU SAW NOTHING.

Anyway, onto the next point.

Traumatised by past experiences…well, do you mean the one where I was CREATED AS A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT or the one where I KILLED THE SCIENTISTS THAT MADE ME AND DESTROYED THE LABORATORY? I'm a tad confused. Please specify.

Need urgent help before I do something I may regret? Oh, on the contrary. I don't _do_ regret.

Lack of parent figures. See 'Traumatised By Past Experiences', example one.

Neurotic. No, _Britney Spears_ is neurotic. I'm just a psychopath. There is a marked difference. I don't know what it is exactly, but there is a difference. Trust me, I'm not Britney. Although I did say "Oops, I did it again," when I dropped a boulder on that Rhydon. But I digress.

After the Stay Puft Pokémon had finished insulting me with its inaccurate diagnoses, I proceeded to argue against his points in a delicate, masterful, and polite manner.

Yes, I did bash its skull in with a rock. Why do you ask? Oh, you didn't? Okay then.

Anyway, I bashed its skull in with a rock until it stopped twitching. It's a good thing there's no law enforcement down here; this was far from the perfect murder, what with all the evidence and screaming and horrible wet bone-crunching noises. Oh, and the copious amounts of blood. And if you're thinking, "But Mewtwo, you didn't care about leaving evidence when you committed genocide against the Electrodes!", then you are an idiot. That was a massacre, this was murder. The key difference is, with a massacre, there's no witnesses left behind. With a murder, there are potential witnesses. Like that Ditto that walked in when I was disposing of the body via my cooker.

Well, I say 'walked'…it kinda…jiggled its way in. Like some animé tentacle rape monster's little abominable offspring.

Getting back to the matter at hand, it saw me stuffing the corpse into my cooker. It squeaked in shock and made to escape, before I levitated it off the ground, and decided that this would be a brilliant opportunity for me to test out my recently-stolen blender. I always wanted to know what a Ditto smoothie would taste like.

On reflection, it tasted like frappéd piss mixed with Snorlax droppings, and had the consistency of slimy chewing gum. It also clogged up my blender something awful, let me tell you. I had to bleach it Arceus knows how many times to get it out.

After I had…disposed of the body (where 'disposed', read 'had for late lunch' – the eggs are a delicacy, you know, full of kindness and good spirit. I could almost hear children crying when I ate them) and the witness, I strolled happily over to the nearest Chansey and informed them that, by some _tragic_ cruel twist of fate, my counsellor had tripped and fell in my open oven, destroying the body beyond all recognition and beyond all means of forensic testing.

Take _that_, Horatio, you sunglasses-sporting git. CSI my arse.

It took this news with much grief – I believe it was a relative of my ex-counsellor – and left to spread the news. As I went back to my lair, I could just about hear the painful screams of sadness as the tragic accident was relayed to the others.

Diary, I have never felt more peaceful and serene than I did at that moment. It gave me a tremendous sense of well-being.

…Please excuse me. There's someone at the door. I also have this queer sense of foreboding, like despair is just around the corner.

Bah, it's probably nothing.

----------

OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS POKÉMON.

They've assigned me another counsellor! This…this…THIS IS AN OUTRAGE. A farce of the highest order! I demand a recount in Florida! It was rigged, rigged I tell you! We demand net neutrality! DRM is flawed! Stop warrantless wiretapping! Save the whales!

…Wait, what am I going on about again?

Oh, yes. Now I remember. They've given me a new counsellor. There is only one way I can fully express my view on this matter:

HATE.

SO MUCH HATE.

If the word 'hate' was inscribed on every nanometre of every neuron in my brain it would not even come close to the hate I feel for the Chansey at this very moment.

Hate.

HATE.

**HATE.**

Ahem. It seems the disappearance of the previous one hasn't put them off trying to press their ideals on me. Peasants. As for the newest lamb to the slaughter…this new counsellor is apparently of a species quite rare in Kanto. Something called a 'Tyranitar', if I heard them right. I haven't heard of it before, but I'm sure it'll be no match for me. As ever, Mewtwo shall reign victorious.

Remember to tune in tomorrow, Diary. Same Mewtwo time, same Mewtwo channel!


End file.
